Reading Festival

Posted by Gill Sutherland at 11:22 on 27 Aug 2008

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Maybe it’s the dazzling effect of the late afternoon sun, or the half-pint-of-cider-on empty-tum high but an hour after arriving onsite we have fallen in love with Reading Festival and its slightly barmy end-of-season bonkersness.
It’s packed and claustro. Five-deep, 20 minute wait at the bar and ten-wide, 20-deep at the bogs. Beer desperately needs imbibing, wee anxiously needs jettisoning.  The cramped site is already a bit smelly, the floor strewn with litter and sticky noodles, the punters are in the main a scruffy bunch of indie student types. Yet there is magic in the air.
So it’s off to the NME/Radio 1 Tent for a side-of-stage (it pays to know people) encounter with the mighty MGMT who, quite simply, (itals)kill(itals). The gorgeous and gorgeously-named Andrew VanWyngarden is resplendent in a kind of tie-dye smock/cape affair, his frizzy hair haloed in a psychedelic light show as the heaving crowd of swooning chicklets are taken on a journey from improv rock to sweaty rave. Top ones: Electric Feel and, of course, Time To Pretend, the one about becoming rich and famous, taking lots of drugs and marrying models; which is fast turning from fantasy into prediction.
An even crazier reception is reserved – if there was ever a more inappropriate word – for Vampire Weekend. Not only does the massive crowd sing every word but they also sing the guitar parts too, which makes the Afrolite Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa one of the anthems of the day.
We glide out of the NME tent, have a mooch around the stalls, where there are two choices of merchandise for the discerning studey punters: gagsome Hello Kitty gear or comedy goth Nightmare Before Christmas-logoed accessories. The only thing we're inclined to purchase is an alcoholic beverage, so we head to the Guest Area behind the main stage, notorious haunt of Geldof sisters and assorted liggers, us included.

The buzz backstage for headliners Rage Against the Machine is bordering on crazed. Everyone we meet enquires if we're 'catching the Rage' with boggle-eyed enthusiasm. We're asked so many times we feel obliged to wander out when we hear the roar that greets their appearance onstage. Shouty Californian rap-rock's never really been our thing, but the sight of the lads clad in Guantanomo Bay issue orange boiler suits and black sacks over their bonces as they rip through Bombtrack, sticking it to the bad-man Bush with a bellyful of vitriol, actually makes us quite giddy with political rage and mob hysteria, we even manage a righteous shoutalong of Bullet In Your Head with the rest of the crowd. For the first time ever we get the Rage. Like, wow.

Ten minutes later, political apathy sets in and instead of the evils of capitalist America we find ourselves thinking how nice a curry would be right now, and so head home hoping Tandoori Nights is open late. Still there was something very special going on there for a bit.

Saturday morning and a truly miraculous thing has occurred: the sun has risen and sits warmly glowing in the sky! Blimey two days in a row, like it's summer or something! We don't even bother to take a raincoat (a first for a festival this year). The day can only get crazier. We shun the slightly ho-hum line-up of the Main Stage and once again opt to wallow in the half-light of the NME/Radio 1 tent where we are promised a whackier and hopefully more bedazzling array of artists.

First up is the mighty rap/disco/rock-fusion queen Santogold. She is bookended by her two lady back-up singers who perform amazing synchronised dance routines, all body-popping robotics and coolly blank expressions behind their shades. The edgy rock and don't-mess sisterhood of 'hit' Creator is a truly wondrous experience.

After the lush visuals of the Gold new wave popsters Ting Ting's performance is a tad lame. Sure the crowd goes bonkers for That's Not My Name and Katie White is her usual hair-flicking punky strutting self, but at the end of the day it's a chap on drums, a chick shouting, and a distinct lack of dancing girls. Boo.

Now you'd think that a bunch of Oxford graduates dressed in dull studey duds, playing their instruments with their heads down and a sulky/slightly demonic, garbling singer, who bares an uncomfortable resemblance to a grunge Prince, to be a bit arse, frankly. Foals however are anything but. This is what they call Mathrock and Yannis Philappakis wasn't kidding when he promised the band's most violent gig ever, guitarist Jimmy Smith diving into the crowd and almost getting ejected from his own show by over-efficient security.

We leave Reading with Cassius still ringing in our ears, truly convinced that this weekend at Reading marked a changing of the musical guard. The spirit of Kurt Cobain, allegedly still haunting the VIP bogs, would surely have approved.

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